a/n Ciao, everyone, and welcome to another chapter of Don't Say A Word. This one has some pretty intense stuff in it so I'm warning you now.
I'd just like to thank everyone once again for all those reviews, favorites and alerts. I'm aiming for a hundred reviews by the end, ahahahahaha~ Wow, I can't believe this is more than half-over. (I still haven't even gotten any flames but shhhhhh).
Oh, I posted a Spamano one-shot that I worked on while I was supposed to be finishing this chapter. It's really sad. Even sadder than this.
In regards to what I'm going to work on after this, I really want to do the AU. Then maybe the sequel to this.
Thanks again everyone!
Blood pooled beneath him as Norway slumped weakly to the floor. Iceland stood above him, panting triumphantly and brandishing his blade, still dripping. Norway howled and clutched his mangled arm. "Ice . . . Iceland!"
"I've always wanted to hear you screaming my name," Iceland sniggered happily. "Maybe this isn't exactly the way I wanted it to happen but I'll take what I can get."
Norway looked at him fearfully. "I can't believe you . . . how did it get like this?"
The teenage nation laughed. "You should know better than anyone, Norge. After all, you're the one who made me this way." He licked some of the blood off the blade, obviously reveling in every drop.
"I was nothing but kind to you!"
"You ignored me!" Iceland leaned forward and snarled angrily. "You abandoned me to go play with that idiot Dane. I didn't see you for weeks at a time because you were busy with him. Months of loneliness do awful things to people. I had to sit back and watch you love someone other than me. It tore me apart yet you noticed nothing."
"People go through that sort of thing all the time," his brother gasped "Think of Gil and Hungary! Belarus and Russia!" Norway quickly realized his mistake. Belarus was not sane by any stretch of the word. He continued on, regardless. "Normal humans go through that all the time but it wasn't enough to drive them to insanity!"
"Humans? How dare you compare the nations to those fools. Their lives are over quickly, giving their jealousy little time to ferment. I have loved you for centuries, Norway. How do you think I felt when I went for testing and found out you were my brother? I was horrified. But I got over it. Love between nations works differently than it does for others." He leaned forward and kissed Norway roughly. He bit his bottom lip harshly, drawing blood. Iceland swirled his tongue around in the coppery liquid for a moment before drawing back, licking crimson from his lips. Little dribbles stained his chin, giving him a slightly vampirish look. "But let's stop talking about that. You belong to me now and I want to have some fun."
Noticing Norway's panicked look, Iceland snorted. "No, not that kind of fun. I'm not a rapist. I wanted it to be willing but it looks like that's not going to happen, is it? So I'm going to have a different kind of fun. Unfortunately for you, it won't be nearly as pleasant."
Iceland reached down to his white boots and produced a small revolver from a hidden holster. Norway gulped. He himself had given Ice that gun as birthday present just last year.
He held out the gun and bloody knife, examining them both. He then offered the gun to Norway. "Here, brother."
Norway looked incredulous. "You're giving this to me? What if I shoot you and run?"
Iceland laughed. "Oh, trust me. You're not going to want me to do that. Because you know what's going to happen if you do?" He took a step forward, face alight with glee. "First, I or one of my accomplices is going to bring Romano in here and . . . oh, I don't know, maybe saw off his arm. Or maybe we'll have you saw off his arm. I don't know. You and Romano are friends, right?" He cackled again. "And then, after, we're going to take a rusty fork and take out one of your eyes. You only need one of those, right? That'll be fun! But that won't even be the best part. Because once Denmark gets here, we're going to take him apart limb by limb and make you watch. So you're not going to do anything with that gun that I don't tell you to do."
The expression on Norway's face went from disgust and horror to dull hope at the mention of Denmark's name. "Denmark is coming?"
"Pathetic," hissed Iceland. "Take the gun and listen closely to what I have to say before I decide that Romano should become a paraplegic and that you'd look sexy with an eye patch."
Norway took the gun, trying to still his fear. He held the metal in his hands, trying to resist the urge to put a bullet through his deranged brother's skull.
Iceland pointed to the revolver. "There is one bullet in that gun. Only one. I'm sure you're familiar with the game of Russian roulette, am I right?"
"W-what?" Norway just stared at him. "I'm playing with you?"
Iceland grinned. "No, silly. You're playing with you. I want you to hold the gun to your head, pull the trigger and, if nothing comes out, respin the cylinder and try again!"
"You're absolutely insane," his brother whispered. "No. I can't do that." Iceland was crazy. You couldn't kill a nation with a bullet. A head wound . . . He shuddered slightly.
Iceland shrugged. "Oh, well. I better get Romano in here. Plus I'll have to locate a fork, what a bother. But it'll all be worth it once Denmark gets here. Maybe I should blind you after we do that to Denmark."
Fear for Denmark seized him as he glared into those violet eyes. "Fine! Fine! I'll do it!"
"Good boy," Iceland cooed. "You'll be so pretty with a hole in your head."
With trembling hands, Norway lifted with revolver to his head and planted it firmly to his temple. He looked at Iceland, who was simply observing Norway's fear with a delighted expression.
Better get this over with. Norway squeezed the trigger quickly, readying himself for the bullet rocketing through his skull.
Nothing came.
Norway's breath caught in his throat as he lowered the gun from his head. He looked to Iceland, who was grinning, obviously enjoying the older nation's terror. "Keep going."
Norway held up the revolver, rotating the cartridge with his thumb. He put it against his head again, heart pounding like a freight train. Never before had he had been so afraid. And Iceland knew it. He loved it. He enjoyed it. He reveled in it.
The knowledge of how this little game would be brought to an end made Norway want to throw up. He wanted to shoot Iceland, but he couldn't. Not when Denmark was in danger. Romano and half of his vision, too of course, but Denmark occupied center stage in his mind. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
He'd never really told Denmark how much he loved him enough. Maybe he never would. If he made it out . . . he would. He vowed he would. He would shower Denmark with so much love and affection the other nation wouldn't know what to do. He rotated the cartridge and pulled the trigger against his head again.
Click.
Tears were running down his face now and he almost wanted it to be over with. The waiting . . . the knowing was the worst. Rotate. Lift. Pull.
Click.
Iceland was watching him intently, like a child at the carnival waiting to see if he'd won a prize. But he'd already won. Norway's fear was prize enough. Rotate. Lift. Pull.
Click.
"I'm sorry, Iceland." The words rose unbidden to his throat. What did he have to be sorry for? Iceland was the one doing this. It was all Iceland's fault. But not . . . not entirely. The other nation flinched at this, eyes growing wide. Rotate. Lift. Pull.
Bang.
Norway collapsed to the ground in slow motion and then all he knew was darkness and pain.
Xxx
Netherlands ran like a man possessed. He had to find Spain. Before it was too late. Were they following him? He didn't even know. All he knew was that he would never forgive himself if he didn't manage to deliver the information to the other nation.
Hell, he was never forgiving himself anyway. But it was his duty. His obligation to a not-quite-friend.
People were stopping and staring at the gigantic spiky haired nation pushing his way through the crowds milling about the street. He could care less. He'd checked two other small villages before this; all dead ends. No one had seen anyone who fit Spain's description. At least no one who knew English, Dutch or Spanish. Netherlands' Italian was a little rusty.
The city was so big. He always got that feeling whenever he visited Italy. Even the smallest towns and villages seemed to stretch on forever, on and on like half-dreamed fairy lands where a soul could become helplessly ensnared.
A small tug on his jacket made him stop and whirl around, ready to scream at whoever dared interrupt him. To his surprise, it was a wizened old Italian woman, hair pulled up in a sensible bun and narrow eyes grey and calculating.
"Are you looking for some of your kind?" she asked in a voice that spoke of age and old leather.
"Nations?" he breathed.
She nodded, giving him a sharp look. "I'm this town's appointed official for dealing with your kind and I was told to keep an eye out and offer my assistance. May I ask which nation I am dealing with?"
Netherlands shook his head. Undoubtedly Spain had already reported him as one of the kidnappers. "I'm sorry, but I am not at liberty to reveal such information."
The old woman grimaced, crossing her arms. Thankfully she didn't comment on his lack of respect for an elder. "The personifications of Spain and Denmark are over there," she pointed to a cluster of buildings where two tall men were standing, apparently pouring frantically over a map. "You looked lost."
Netherlands blood ran cold. Denmark. How could he approach Spain now with that crazy ax murderer with him? Norway . . . he probably knew he had kidnapped Norway. He was going to kill him. Not that he didn't deserve it, but he had to tell Spain where Romano was first.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into? He asked himself, reaching into his pocket for his pipe and shoving it in his mouth. It wasn't lit but that scarcely mattered.
He turned back to the woman, who was now eying him with distaste. "Listen, lady. I need you to help me with something."
Xxx
Spain should've felt angry. He should've felt furious. He was face to face with the man who had tortured Romano. They had never been on good terms before, so why did righteous fury desert him now?
But no, all he could feel was pity. In front of him slouched a broken man. A man who had done horrible things in the name of love and who had everything he cared about ripped away from him. He was once so strong . . . now he had to meet up with Spain in some dingy alleyway like a common hoodlum, to afraid too face Denmark while knowing what had been down to his love. Netherlands was a shadow of what he had once been, all pale and drawn and worn.
"I need to talk to you," the nation sighed.
"I know," Spain crossed his arms impatiently. "Who has Romano?" It was such a struggle to keep his voice calm.
Netherlands wouldn't look him in the eyes. "I can't tell you."
Something akin to annoyance was now bubbling in Spain's stomach. "And why not?"
"I just can't. If there's a chance Belgium's still alive . . . I came to tell you where he is."
Spain gripped him by the shoulders, trying to ignore the sounds of Romano's fading screams. "Where?"
Netherlands looked around nervously, like a fox on the run from the hound. "They're being kept in a small building in the forests on the outskirts of Rome. It's about half a day's walk from here."
"Is that all?" Spain tried to keep the hitch from his voice. "Is that all you came to tell me?" I can't start crying . . . not now. Oh, Romano. What are they doing to you? I'm coming. Please, I'm coming.
"I broke Romano's leg," he said abruptly, still not lifting his head. "That's why he was screaming. He may . . . he may never walk correctly again."
"What." Spain's voice trembled with rage. How dare this man stand here and tell him these things. How dare he act like it was okay, it was fine. What he'd done wasn't forgivable. Surely Netherlands knew this.
"I'm sorry." There was the anger. Proper anger now; not condensed into a small pocket of loathing. Spain exploded at the man.
"How dare you apologize to me? How dare you! There is nothing you can do to make this okay!" His green eyes glinted angrily as he pushed Netherlands against the wall. "You are a pitiful excuse for a nation! How could you! How could you hurt him like that? What has Romano ever done to you? How could you hurt him and expect me to forgive you? Why, Netherlands? Why?"
Netherlands simply stared at him for a few moments before collapsing to the ground in tears. "You would've done the same thing if it were you. If it were Romano instead of Belgium. You'd do anything to get them back."
Spain ignored the truth in those words. He also ignored the fact that he was now able to see some of the brick through Netherlands' body. Instead, he turned around and walked away to find Denmark, leaving a broken nation in his wake.
He was halfway across the street to where Denmark was standing impatiently in front of a bookshop before halting as Netherlands' words hit him. He would do the same for Romano. Of course he would. Netherlands . . .
Spain spun around, ignoring the confused shout from Denmark and sprinted back to the alley.
By the time he reached it, Netherlands was gone and Spain didn't know whether to scream or laugh.
Xxx
Fading . . . it didn't hurt as much as Netherlands would've thought. In fact, it was strangely gratifying. The once mighty nation stared, unfeeling, at his semi-transparent hands.
Where do nations go when they die? Where did Rome and Germania and Byzantium and Holy Rome end up once their time as world powers ran out?
If there was a heaven, he certainly didn't deserve a place there. None of the nations did. Some sins were unforgivable and some bloodied hands can never be washed clean. They had all done horrible, awful things in the past and, whether they regretted it or not, were responsible for the ends of too many lives. Even if the bloody wars he fought didn't count against him, surely the awful things he'd done to Romano during a time of peace were enough to drag him down to the very pits of hell.
Netherlands curled up into a small ball, and tried to stop the tears from coming. He would not be weak in his final moments. But, dear lord, it was hard not to. He didn't want to die here, in some strange country not his own. He didn't want to die in a lonely alley, regretting all he'd done and all he'd become.
I wish I'd been a better brother to her.
How could I have done that to them?
What kind of nation am I?
What have I become?
The ground stared menacingly up at him through his torso and he was glad he'd had enough strength to get a few miles away from Spain before he'd collapsed. He didn't want the older nation coming back and finding him like this.
"So how did it go?" An all-too familiar voice chuckled.
No . . . not this . . . not now. Was it too much to ask for a quiet death?
Netherlands groaned and opened his eyes to a horrifying sight.
Oh, lord . . .
The Boss was standing over him, smiling a smile too big for his face. There was blood splattered over his face and his uniform was completely soaked in the stuff. He held a butcher's knife that gleamed a bright and dangerous crimson. Where is all this blood from?
"I take it not too well, considering your sorry state. I was right, there really wasn't much left for me too finish off. I wonder how I should kill you."
Netherlands trembled slightly, willing himself to fade faster. Before the Boss could have any fun with him. But his prayers were not answered, not that he'd been expecting anything much. He didn't deserve it.
The Boss leaned down, whispering softly in Netherland's ear. "I think I'll cut you up like a piece of meat."
Netherlands was too weak to roll over, too weak to even try to put up a fight. Maybe the knife will just go through me.
Whump. The Boss brought the knife down and Netherlands suddenly found himself missing his right hand. The blade was so sharp it had sliced through the bone like butter. The pain came slowly rolling in. Perhaps his nerves were fading, too. The wave crashed over him harshly.
The fading nation cradled the bleeding stump to his chest and tried to scream, but no words would emerge. He voice just wouldn't come. He couldn't concentrate either. Everything around him seemed detached and surreal.
Am I dreaming?
The disembodied hand in front of him looked no more real than a rubber gag gift. The Boss seemed no more threatening than a child covered in ketchup, trying to make themself appear frightening.
Why was I ever afraid?
The Boss had stopped moving now, grin fading away. Netherlands was dimly aware of the butcher knife falling in slow motion and glancing his arm. Was that his blood?
The realization hit him finally and he breathed a long shuddering sigh. It was okay. Wherever he was going, it would be okay.
I'm dying.
The nation above him kneeled down beside him, brushing the hair out of his face with an odd tenderness. "Belgium is alive. Your . . ." Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by an odd rushing sound in Netherlands' ears as all the colors in the world ran together and melted away.
And then he was gone.
a/n I love Netherlands. I didn't really want to have him die. I didn't even plan to have him become an all that important character. I hope I did his character justice.